


eighteen candles

by waveydnp



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-12 08:34:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29382150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waveydnp/pseuds/waveydnp
Summary: On his eighteenth birthday Baz comes out twice; first to his father, and then to his roommate. One of them takes it slightly better than the other.
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 17
Kudos: 174
Collections: Snowbaz Sweethearts Fic Exchange 2021





	eighteen candles

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jyoti96](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jyoti96/gifts).



**Baz**

I don’t know what possessed me.

Maybe it was something about turning eighteen. Becoming an adult, officially.

Maybe it was the way Snow’s neck was stretched to the side, his head cradled in his hand as the poor sod tried to do some revising for tomorrow’s magic words quiz.

Maybe I just needed to tell someone, anyone, even if it happened to be the last person I actually wanted to confide in.

I don’t think that was it. Fiona knows, as does Dev, and it’s never changed anything. It’s never made me feel less alone. I suppose I have to admit to myself that I wanted to tell my father, specifically. It’s truly a wonder I still manage to hope that he’ll take an interest in who I am and not who he wants me to be.

I blurted it out in between bites of rare steak:

“I’m queer.”

He didn’t look surprised, and he didn’t respond right away. He smoothed a wisp of shock white hair up and over his widow’s peak and took a sip of wine, no doubt ruminating over how best to go about reacting to the news that his son is a homosexual.

“When did you work this out?”

I wasn’t expecting a warm reception, and yet his coldness was still a bit of a shock to the system.

“Years ago.”

He dabbed the corner of his mouth with a napkin. “How certain are you?”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re a teenager. It could be a phase.”

I allowed my voice to go as aloof as his, resigned to adding another disappointment to the list. “I’m one hundred percent certain.”

“Well then. I suppose that’s that, isn’t it?”

That’s all he said about the matter. We finished our food and he dropped me back at Watford with the parting words, “Happy birthday, Basilton.”

It’s not the worst birthday I’ve ever had. Probably doesn’t even make the top five. At least he remembered. At least he drove down from Hampshire and took me out for a meal.

Now I walk across the grounds to Mummers, shivering in the damp cold of late February, my hands shoved into the pockets of my jacket. It feels fitting that I was born into the most dreary month of the year.

I stand at the foot of the stairs that would take me up to the room I share with the object of my sexual awakening and no part of me wants to take those steps. I can’t face it. Not yet. I told myself I wouldn’t be disappointed if my father was less than accepting. I told myself it wasn’t about his reaction, it was about me, about my refusal to keep this part of my identity hidden from him any longer.

I see now that was terribly foolish of me. There’s always room for a little more disappointment, and even though I’m cold and undead and my heart beats at half time, there’s still a part of me that feels things with all the bleeding vulnerability of a human man.

I can’t go up to my room yet. I can’t smell Snow’s buttery blood or see a single one of his goddamned freckles. All of this feels like his fault.

So I turn away from the tower and head for the catacombs. Right now I’d rather be a vampire than a person.

**Simon**

Sometimes I wonder why I’m still allowed to attend this school.

I’m a shit student. Like, proper shit. If it weren’t for Penny I probably wouldn’t have passed a single class in the last seven years, and this year isn’t shaping up to be any different. I’m starting to regret turning down her offer to help me revise, but I was feeling noble this afternoon. I knew she’d get further with her own studying if she didn’t have to hold my hand the whole time.

I can’t focus on schoolwork anyway. Lately every spare thought I have is dedicated to trying to solve the mystery of Natasha Pitch’s death. Baz and I haven’t made much headway, even after spending the entire Christmas break in his family’s absolutely massive library. Not even Malcolm Grimm knows anything about Nicodemus.

Well. He said he didn’t. Baz asked him point blank as we were all sat down to Christmas dinner. Mr. Grimm didn’t skip a beat in denying any knowledge of a person by that name, but something didn’t feel quite right to me. He was almost too nonchalant. Honestly, I don’t trust that man any further than I could throw him. He looks even more like a villain than Baz does.

Then again, lately I reckon I’ve proved myself to be a pretty shit judge of character.

I’ve learned a lot these past few months, even if it hasn’t been the information I’ve been looking for. I’ve learned that Baz is kind of sort of alright as long as I don’t talk about things that piss him off. He’ll always be a twat and a vampire and a smug posh prick, but I don’t know. He’s dead clever. And sometimes he can be funny. He still hates the Mage which really rubs me the wrong way, but I’m starting to wonder what it is exactly that I’m defending.

The Mage is the only reason I’m here, at Watford. He’s the only reason I have friends and proper meals and a chance to make something of myself. I can’t ever forget that, and I’ll always be grateful. But he doesn’t speak to me anymore unless it’s to try to convince me to leave. It’s like he’s trying to take back everything he offered me eight years ago. Like he regrets believing I could ever be the Chosen One he was searching for.

I know I’m a disappointment to him, but I guess I kind of thought he cared for me enough that it wouldn’t matter. I don’t think I believe that anymore.

Basically Baz is alright and the Mage has no use for me now that he knows I'm just exactly as useless as I’ve always feared I am and I don’t know which way is up anymore. So maybe Malcolm Grimm really doesn’t know anything about Nicodemus.

But I think he does.

I’ve chewed the rubber off my pencil completely before I give up on revising. At this point I know what I know. I’m not going to become a competent magician overnight, so why waste time trying?

I decide to have a shower instead.

I’m just stepping out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam when Baz comes back. I’m naked save for a towel wrapped around my waist, my hair dripping water down my back and onto my shoulders. He’s wearing a fucking suit.

He stands in the doorway of our room, his eyes cast slightly down as he stares at… something. My neck, I think. He certainly isn’t making eye contact. I glance down at myself to make sure I’m still wearing my cross. I am. I hate to think he’d attack me after eight years of controlling his vampiric urges, but I’m not imagining it, he’s really staring at my neck. Or my chest? We’ve shared a room for nearly a decade, it’s not like he’s never seen me without a shirt on, but maybe he’s feeling particularly thirsty tonight.

“Take a picture,” I tell him, fighting the urge to panic. “It’ll last longer.”

He looks away so abruptly that his head almost makes a jerking motion. He kicks the door closed and growls at me to put some clothes on.

“Why’re you in a mood?” I grumble, turning away from him and toward my wardrobe to grab out my pyjamas. “And why are you all dressed up?”

I hear the springs of his mattress creek as he collapses into his bed and huffs. It’s so unlike him that I actually turn around, still dripping wet, to look at him properly. He never collapses into bed. He never huffs. He’s always calm and collected. Irritatingly so.

“I went out for dinner with my father.”

He also never gives me direct answers when I ask stupid questions. It’s a night of firsts, apparently.

“Is that an answer to the first question or the second?”

He sighs. “Both.” One of his feet is dangling off the edge of the bed. He’s still wearing his shoes.

“Did he tell you about Nicodemus?”

“What?” he asks, then immediately follows it with: “No.”

“You know he knows,” I say. “Something at least.”

“If he does I can promise you that we are the last two people on earth he’d tell.”

“Why?”

“Fucking hell, Snow. I’m not up for an interrogation right now. Leave me alone.”

“I don’t understand why suddenly you don’t care. It’s been months and Nicodemus is the only lead we have. Your father knows something, why wouldn’t you—”

“Shut the fuck up!” he shouts, cutting me off.

I snap my mouth shut, then turn my back to him and drop my towel. I don’t even care if he sees my arse. Serves him right for being such a fucking tosser.

**Baz**

Simon Snow is naked. He’s only stood about six feet away from me and he’s stark fucking naked. I watch transfixed as he pulls his pj bottoms up over his ass. Apparently he doesn’t wear pants to sleep. I don’t know how I’m supposed to survive another night sleeping in the bed beside his now that I know this information.

“Snow.”

He doesn’t turn around, just barks, “What?”

“I’m gay.”

He says, “What?” again, but this time the intonation has changed completely. He turns slowly to face me, clutching his shirt in his hands.

“Don’t make me say it again. I beg you.”

“I—” He tries again. “Okay.”

I lift an eyebrow. “Okay?”

“Okay, that’s… that’s cool. That’s fine.”

“I’m glad I’ve got your permission.” I think I manage to exude an air of detached sarcasm, but really I’m laid here desperately wishing the legends about vampires were true and I could transmogrify into a bat and fly away from here forever.

“Don’t be a dick,” he says. “I’m just surprised.”

“Why?”

“Because I thought you wanted to shag Agatha.”

I prop myself up on my elbows and give him my iciest glare. “I _told_ you I didn’t.”

“I didn’t believe you.”

“Of course you didn’t.”

He goes quiet, chewing his lip but still staring at me, eyes nearly bugged right out of his skull.

“Use your words, Snow.”

He frowns. “Just because you’re gay doesn’t mean I have to be nice to you now.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to be.”

He moves from chewing his lip to chewing his cross. “Why are you telling me now?”

That’s a bloody good question. One I quite honestly do not have the answer to.

So I make one up. “I thought if you were going to start stripping right in front of me you should know that I’m not exactly indifferent to it.”

The cross drops from between his lips, hitting him in the chest with a little smacking sound right between the collarbones. “Oh.”

“So now you know,” I say. Awkwardly.

“So…” His frown deepens. “Is that your roundabout way of saying I’ve got a good arse?”

My stomach squirms. I half expected him to be angry or indignant, or possibly vaguely disgusted. Right now he appears to be none of those things.

I roll onto my stomach and reach under the bed, pulling out a half empty bottle of whiskey. I can’t do this sober. I simply cannot.

“Put your shirt on,” I grunt, twisting the lid off the bottle and taking a swig. It burns all the way down to my stomach, but I endure the discomfort stoically. I can’t allow myself to appear any more vulnerable to Snow than I already have.

He stares at me for a good long while before he pulls the shirt over his head. I’m not strong enough to avert my eyes from the way the muscles in his abdomen shift with the movement. There’s no hint left of the gauntness I found in him when I finally returned to Watford this autumn. He looks healthy again, fleshed out the way he should be. Golden. Alive.

“What are you doing?” he asks, taking a seat on the edge of his bed.

I take another drink and it burns a little less. “Leave me alone.”

“What was so bad about dinner with your dad? I mean, besides the obvious.”

“If there’s one day in all the year you don’t drive me mad with your stupid questions, Snow, please for the love of Crowley make it today.”

He kicks my bed, jostling me just as I’m lifting the bottle to my mouth. It sloshes out, down my chin and onto the front of my shirt.

“Fuck’s sake,” I growl, but I don’t have the energy to put any venom into it.

“Talk to me,” he demands petulantly. He really is like an overgrown child. I suppose no one ever bothered to teach him how to act, but at the moment I’m a wee bit short on empathy.

“I’d rather fuck a merwolf.”

“No you wouldn’t.” He kicks my bed again. “What happened with your dad? Why were you even seeing him today if it wasn’t about trying to get him to tell you what he knows?”

I drop my head back onto the pillow and shut my eyes. “It’s my birthday.”

“Oh.”

“He doesn’t know anything,” I say. “He loved my mother more than anything else. More than me, more than magic. If he had usable information about her death, he’d have acted on it.”

“Why didn’t you tell me it was your birthday?”

He sounds so sincere that I have to lift my head and get a good look at him. He’s frowning again. The man wears his emotions like clothing. It makes me unspeakably uncomfortable. “Why would I?”

He opens his mouth and closes it again, apparently stumped by my flawless logic, then juts out his chin. I take another drink to celebrate my victory, and I’m dismayed to find I’m nearing the end of the bottle already. Being a dark creature with superhuman abilities means the effects of alcohol only become pronounced when I’ve drunk at least twice as much as would be needed to get a normal person properly pissed up.

“Give us some of that, then,” Snow says, nodding towards the bottle.

I toss it to him without argument. Part of me really does want to be left alone to wallow in peace - and the other part is morbidly curious to see what happens if Simon Snow and I get drunk together. Maybe I’ll jump him. Maybe he’ll kill me. Maybe we’ll solve the mystery of my mother’s murder. At this point I’m up for anything.

He pours the rest of the whiskey down his throat, then sputters and coughs and chokes on the liquid fire like an imbecile.

“Smooth,” I drawl, reaching my hand out into the space between our beds.

He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand before giving the bottle to me. “Tastes like fucking battery acid.”

“You’ve got no taste.”

“I prefer cider.”

I scoff. “I rest my fucking case.” I slip my wand down my sleeve and tap the end of it on the mouth of the bottle. _**“My cup runneth over.”**_

The bottle slowly refills with the same rich amber it had contained before, and I close my lips over the mouth before it can literally run over. Not that it matters; the front of my shirt is already soaked with the stuff.

“That’s a neat trick,” he says.

“It’s called magic, Snow. Ever heard of it?”

“Piss off,” he says, standing up and leaning over to snatch the bottle away from me. I let him take it. “Tell me what happened.”

Then he sits on my bed. Right next to where I’m lying. He takes a drink from the bottle I had my lips on twenty seconds ago, and this time he doesn’t cough.

“Baz,” he says again. “Tell me what happened.”

“Why do you care?”

“I just do.”

**Simon**

If it’s possible to be buzzed after what amounts to two or three shots of whiskey, I am. I don’t drink much, and it’s been a few hours since I ate anything. And things are feeling very, very strange.

I’ve never seen Baz like this. I’ve seen him furious and annoyed and stroppy and smug and dark and brooding and cool and composed - but I’ve never seen him sad. I’ve never seen him act quite this much like a human being.

His cheeks are pink. I don’t know if it’s the alcohol or the rats he no doubt drained before he came back to our room. I don’t point it out anymore, but I can always tell when he’s been down in the catacombs. There’s a smell.

It’s gone now. Now he smells like cedar and whiskey. It’s kind of nice, actually. All of this is nice. Him telling me things. Us not trying to rip each other’s throats out. The truce. A small part of me hopes we never find the answers we’re looking for.

Maybe not so small. Maybe a big part.

I turn towards him slightly and nudge his hip with my knee. I’m surprised when he doesn’t curse me out for daring to touch him.

“This is humiliating,” he murmurs.

“No it isn’t.”

“We’re not friends.”

“Okay, we’re not friends.” I nudge him again. “Tell me what happened.”

He sighs deeply. Vampires must have more lung capacity than humans.

“I came out to my father.”

“And he didn’t take it well?”

“He didn’t really take it at all. It was like I’d told him my hair isn’t actually black and I’ve just been dying it this whole time. Or like I wanted to go vegan.”

I refrain from making any comments about veganism being a literal death sentence for someone like him. And then it strikes me how fucking bizarre it is for me to bite my tongue when I think of an insult that might actually hurt him. That used to be all we said to each other. He still insults me constantly, but it’s been a while since any of it felt real.

“Snow.”

“What?”

“This is the part where you’re meant to say something comforting.”

“Oh, right.” I run a hand through my hair. “I’m… not really good at that.”

“Of course you’re not.” He takes a swig of whiskey.

“How are you not falling down drunk right now?”

He gives me a look. It’s the closest he’s come to outright admitting what he is.

“Oh,” I say. “Right.” I take the bottle from him. “I’ve got some catching up to do, I guess.”

“I’m not taking care of you if you get sick.”

“Cheers.”

**Baz**

“Do you have hair on your nipples?”

This is the kind of insipid query that comes out of Snow’s brain when he’s sloshed. Apparently. I didn’t know that until tonight. There’s a lot about him that I didn’t know until tonight, all of it revolving around things he does when he’s drunk that he certainly doesn’t when he’s sober.

Like touching me. Not in any of the ways I’ve fantasized about, of course, but I’m not complaining. Right now he’s laid next to me on my bed and he keeps knocking his knee into mine. A few minutes ago he tugged a bit of my hair up to his nose and took a sniff. When I gave him a very genuine look of bewilderment he just shrugged and said it smelled nice.

He’s clearly feeling relaxed. I, on the other hand, have scarcely taken two breaths in the past half hour. Simon bloody Snow is laid next to me on my bed. He’s asking me intimate details about my nipples.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” I say. Because I’m nothing if not extremely skilled in projecting cool indifference regardless of what’s really going on inside my head. If he wants the answer he’ll just have to take my shirt off and see for himself.

Snow’s not the only one who’s intoxicated, that much I can be sure of. My thoughts keep running away from me.

“Yeah I would, wanker, that’s why I asked.” He knocks his knee into mine.

“Is this a question that keeps you up at night?”

He ignores me, reaching a hand up into the air and splaying out his fingers. I’ve no idea what he’s doing, but I watch him intently anyway.

“I think this is the drunkest I’ve ever been,” he says. Now his fingers are wiggling.

“What are you doing?”

“I dunno.” He drops his hand. “My fingers feel tingly.”

“Magic whiskey has that effect,” I tell him.

He turns his head on the pillow to look at me, his eyes wide. “Does it?”

“No, idiot. You’re just drunk.”

“Oh.”

I say it before thinking about whether or not I should: “Your magic made me feel tingly.”

“Oh, the dragon thing?”

“Yes,” I admit, because the ship of my dignity has sailed so far away that I can’t even see the outline of it on the horizon any longer. “And the stars.”

He smiles. He smiles with his teeth. His eye crinkles in the corner and his voice is warm when he speaks. “That was something, wasn’t it?”

“It was for me.”

He makes me so unforgivably soft. Now that I’ve got a truce with him, now that I’m not allowed to antagonize him mercilessly from dusk til dawn, I find myself swinging too far in the opposite direction. In the direction of the way I actually feel about him. It’s awful.

“I think we’re friends,” he announces.

“Never.”

“You don’t hate me as much as you want to think you do.”

“Don’t I?”

**Simon**

He doesn’t. I know he doesn’t, but I also know that even plastered, he’s not just going to admit it.

“You wouldn’t have told me you’re gay if you didn’t trust me.”

“Coming out isn’t a big deal if I don’t make it a big deal,” he says, and I almost believe that he believes that. “You knowing I like men won’t stop me from taking you down some day.”

“That’s so weird.”

He huffs, clearly miffed at my lack of concern for his threats. “What is?”

“You liking men.”

“Didn’t take you for a homophobe.”

I knee him a little harder. “I’m not. Actually, it makes me kind of like you. That’s what’s weird.”

There’s a look that flits across his face for a split second before it’s replaced by that mask he’s always got on. That sneer. “Why? Because now you don’t have to worry about me trying to pull your girlfriend?”

It's the worst thing he’s said to me in a while. Not necessarily because of the words, but the tone in which he speaks them. It’s something the old Baz would say. It’s something he’s saying specifically to hurt me.

And it does. But not in the way he probably means it to.

“You know we broke up,” I say quietly.

“And now there’s nothing stopping you from getting back together.” His voice has gone fully cold now. I’m too drunk to be worried about why I’m so upset about it. All I know is that I am.

“Except for the fact that she doesn’t like me.”

“You’re the Chosen One.”

“That’s shit and you know it.”

He doesn’t answer, so I carry on. “And I’m not sure I really like her either.”

He’s quiet for a long time. I lie there staring up at the ceiling above his bed and wondering how the fuck we got here. Why did I get so drunk that I can’t stop myself telling him the truth? Why did he come out to me? And why am I so surprised that he’s reverted back to his actual personality?

Then he says, “She’s not good enough for you anyway,” and I know right away that something has shifted in a big way. A way that terrifies me.

I sit up and turn away from him, draping my legs over the edge of the bed, pressing my feet into the floor. My head is spinning, so I lean forward and hold it in my hands.

“Snow?”

“I feel sick,” I croak. “I drank too much.”

The bed creaks as he gets up. A moment later there’s a cold breeze washing over me. I hear his voice but not the words he’s saying, and then something taps my shoulder gently.

And suddenly the spinning stops, and my stomach unclenches, and I realize the wintry air drying the sweat along my hairline is coming in through the window. Baz must have opened it. I lift my head and he’s crouched down right there in front of me, a hand on my knee.

He pulls it away when he sees I’ve noticed, but he doesn’t stand up. He stays on my level.

“Alright?”

I nod. “What happened?”

“I did my best to spell you sober.” He sounds cautious. “I think you were about to go off.”

As soon as he says it, I smell the smoke lingering in the air. “Fuck.” I drop my head into my hands again, tearing through my hair. “For fuck’s sake. I’m so sick of this.”

“It’s fine, Snow. No harm, no foul.”

I shake my head. “I can’t have emotions without running the risk of blowing up. It’s not fair.”

I’m getting agitated, even though that’s exactly what I need to try not to be doing. But I can’t bloody help it, and that’s the real problem with me, innit? I’ve got no control. Not over myself. Not over anything. I’m reactive; nuclear. I’m just a bomb and nothing else. Agatha was right to leave me. Baz is and always has been right: I’m the worst Chosen One to ever be chosen. Whatever cosmic force awarded me this power chose the wrong vessel. I’m a dud.

The Mage knows that. That’s why he’s given up, why he keeps me at arm’s length. Maybe my parents could sense it the moment I was born. Maybe that’s why they left me too.

The smell of smoke is stronger now. My skin is hot. I close my eyes and breathe in deeply, but the force of the magic inside me has already startled to tumble out. It’s too late to put it back.

Suddenly I’m yanked to my feet. Baz is clutching my hands, his hair falling in soft black waves around his face, his eyes so grey and dark they look black.

“Give me some,” he says, and I don’t understand. I wrap my fingers around his hands and squeeze tightly, feeling the bones and tendons shifting beneath his skin.

“Simon,” he says, a little softer. “Give me some. I can take it. You don’t have to do this alone.”

**Baz**

I’ve never had sex, but I can’t imagine it feels better than this. I can’t imagine anything feeling better than this. It’s like fire, like flames licking me from the inside out, but instead of burning it’s a balm. The raw power of it tingles in the tips of my fingers. I feel drunk again— no. High. Higher than a dragon. Higher than the stars.

There’s no break in our circuit. We’re connected, Snow and I, in a way that feels profound. He can’t do this with Bunce. There’s no way he could do it with Wellbelove. For all I know there’s no one else who can stand the heat of his fire. But I was born into flame on both sides, Grimm and Pitch. It’s in my blood.

Perhaps that’s why the crucible cast us together. We really weren’t meant to hate each other, and it’s only taken us eight years to figure it out.

He’s looking at me. The light in our room at night isn’t enough to illuminate the blue of his eyes, so right now they look grey. Like mine. I can still see his moles though: three on his right cheek, two underneath his left ear, one over his left eye. His head is tilted up slightly. Somehow, despite being ten feet tall, a god amongst men, he’s always three inches beneath me.

When he blinks, a tear rolls down his cheek. He lets go of my hand to swipe it away, and just like that, the connection is broken. The magic goes out like a tide, leaving the room quiet in its wake.

“Fuck,” he says, still holding my other hand. “Sorry.”

I don’t want to let him go, which is exactly why I do, slipping my hand from his vice-like grip and taking a step back.

He takes a step forward. “Baz.” His voice is thin and cracked.

“Look, Snow—” I start to say, but the breath is punched out from me when he throws an arm around the back of my neck and crushes himself into my chest. His other hand is fisted into my shirt at my lower back, and his mouth is pressed to my shoulder.

I’m afraid to move. I’m not sure if this could be classified as a hug, but it’s something along those general lines. He’s clinging to me, his chest rising and falling heavily like he’s fighting off something a lot more human than a cosmic excess of magic. He smells like smoke and soap and blood and I’m trying not to think about biting him - and then _he_ bites _me_.

I feel his teeth in my shoulder, biting me through my shirt and my first thought isn’t even for how strange this all is. All I have the capacity to comprehend is how much I like it. He’s not holding back, and it hurts. I feel guilty for the pleasure it brings me because I know he’s in pain. I know he’s using unbreakable skin as an outlet for whatever fears and frustrations are coursing through him, but I can’t separate it from the closeness and the intimacy. And it feels like an outlet for me too.

I slide a hand up his spine to the back of his neck. I thread my fingers into his curls and scratch my nails into his scalp and will my body not to get so excited that it forces him to step back and see me for what I am: obsessed, enamoured. Hungry.

It is soon made abundantly clear that I have nothing to worry about. As carried away as I feel, Snow is matching it with action. He noses in between my skin and the collar of my ruined shirt and sinks his teeth into my neck. I gasp, stunned, my heart rate rising almost to that of a normal person.

My sharp intake of breath seems to break the spell for him. He lets go of me, taking a few steps back, rubbing his mouth and muttering, “sorry, sorry,” in a dazed voice. “I— Sorry.”

“You just surprised me, that’s all. It’s fine.”

He shakes his head, then flees to the toilet.

**Simon**

I didn’t mean to do that. I just… I just wanted him to hold me. Which is so fucking insane I can’t believe I’m even admitting it to myself, but it’s true. He saved me from going off. He saved me blowing up Mummers and disappointing the Mage and risking the safety of everyone else who sleeps in this tower. He helped me, and I didn’t even have to ask.

I guess I still went off. I went off as a boy and not as a magician, and Baz was there and Baz was kind and I was too fucked up not to take advantage. But I didn’t have to fucking bite him. I’ve no idea why I did that.

I’ve no idea why I want to do it again.

I turn the shower on and let the water run, filling the room with steam. I’m definitely sober now, at least. Which means I’ll have to confront the reason I started freaking out in the first place.

**Baz**

Eventually I decide that sitting on the edge of my bed and waiting for Snow to come out of the bathroom isn’t the right move. He’s been in there for ages, the shower going the whole time. He’s probably doing his best to wash off the memory of what just happened between us.

I strip my clothes off and pull on a pair of grey flannel school issued pyjama pants (the same ones Snow is wearing) and climb into bed. Once I’ve spelled the lights off, I turn onto my side, facing the window. Facing away from Snow’s bed. I don’t want him to see me when he finally comes out. And I don’t want to see him.

I wonder if things can go back to normal, if he’ll forget the cracks I allowed in my mask. Perhaps he’ll be cruel to me to balance the scales. Or we can simply blame the alcohol and get on with our lives as temporarily cordial rivals.

I can still feel where his mouth was pressed to my neck. His magic is still surging in my veins. It’s going to hurt once it’s gone.

-

Snow emerges about two hours later. I haven’t slept a wink, and I know I won’t. My first night as an eighteen year old will be spent sleepless and pining, which feels apropos.

He doesn’t say anything, but I suppose he thinks I’m asleep. His mattress groans a little under his weight. The beds here are probably as old as Watford itself, held together with magic and nostalgia. They’re not comfortable, but I wouldn’t trade them for anything. I always miss this lumpy old thing in the summer when I’m back home in Hampshire, surrounded by down and silk and guarded by wooden gargoyles.

I have the sudden realization that in only a few months time, summer will arrive and I won’t be able to come back here. This bed will be someone else’s bed. I won’t share a room with Simon Snow anymore.

The despair is starting to settle in when I hear Snow turn over in bed. “Hey Baz?” His voice sounds far away.

“What?”

“How drunk are you?”

“I’m not.”

“Were you before?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose and take a breath to compose myself before I speak to him again. “We don’t have to talk, Snow. I won’t tell anyone what happened. Your reputation is safe.”

“Fuck my reputation.”

I twist around to try and get a look at him. He’s laid on his side facing my bed and he’s got his gold cross between his lips again. He looks different in the dark, grey skinned and alien.

“That’s not why I’m asking,” he says.

“Why are you asking?”

“Because…” He goes quiet, but I wait. My whole body is tense. I don’t dare disturb the stillness in the air to take a breath.

“Because I want to know how much of what you said was real.”

“None of it,” I say automatically. “All of it.”

He punches his pillow in frustration. “You’re a fucking arsehole.”

“Yes.”

“Are you actually gay?”

“As far as I’m aware.”

More quiet. More stillness. I listen to the sound of his breathing. I never ended up closing the window and the air in the room is cold.

“What’s it like?” he asks. He’s so unbearably earnest, so heartbreakingly sincere that I can’t bring myself to give him a sarcastic reply.

“Lonely.”

His mattress creaks again, and I hear the soft sound of bare feet on the hardwood floor. It only takes him two steps to get from his bed to mine. He pulls the duvet off my chest and down to my feet. I’d shiver if I wasn’t having a heart attack.

He climbs up onto my bed and situates himself above me on all fours. He’s fucking straddling me, hands pressing down into the pillow, arms bracketing my head.

“I think you’re a good person,” he says.

“I’m not.”

“I like you.”

I swallow, and exhale shakily through my nose. My heart is hammering. It’s never done that before. Not since I was Turned.

“I like you too,” I whisper.

He puts a hand on my bare chest and his skin is like fire.

“You’re freezing,” he says.

“Someone pulled off my blanket, didn’t they?”

“Are you complaining?”

He isn’t teasing me; he’s asking for real. He’s still got his palm pressed against my left pec and he’s watching my face intently. As astronomically improbable as it may be, a decade’s worth of wanting him is going to come down to this moment - and whether or not I’m brave enough to let myself have it.

I reach up and grab a handful of his shirt. “Of course I’m not fucking complaining.”

**Simon**

He’s got me by the shirt and I’m pretty fucking sure he wants what I’m thinking about. It’d be so easy for him to just tug me down and do it so I don’t have to be the brave one.

I guess that’s kind of my thing, though. I should be used to it by now. And I am, if the thing I’m up against is some kind of monster. But that’s not what’s happening here. This is a whole different kind of bravery, one I know nothing about.

He’s already given me permission. He’s already told me everything I need to know.

So I do it. I lean down and press my mouth to his. His lips are as soft as Agatha’s, which I didn’t realize was something I had preconceived notions about, the texture of Baz’s lips, but apparently I did because it strikes me as incredibly surprising.

Then again, there isn’t a single aspect of this that isn’t surprising to me. Every moment is a new revelation. Baz tilts his face up to meet mine and pulls on my shirt like he wants me closer, like he can’t get enough. That would be mind blowing enough on its own, but my body’s reaction is something else entirely.

It feels a bit like magic. Like my magic. Like losing control, only this kind isn’t frustrating or dangerous. It’s… fun. It feels good.

Finding kissing fun probably shouldn’t be a surprise, especially considering Baz is not the first person I’ve kissed, but I guess I already knew that Agatha and I weren’t good together. I just didn’t know the extent of our apathy for each other. I didn’t know how much better kissing could be.

This is so, so much better. The smell of cedar and bergamot is even nicer up close, and his mouth is cool, and—

And then he pushes me away. Gently, but still, I’m definitely not ready for this to be over, and I’m about to make that known when he grabs the cross dangling from my neck and yanks it off.

**Baz**

The second it’s off, I toss it across the room and wrap a hand around the back of his neck to pull him down to me. I’m greedy for him, for his burning hot mouth and his loud breathing and the thing he keeps doing with his chin, and for some reason he’s actually letting me have it. I’m not going to waste a single second. When it’s over and he decides he made a mistake, I want to have this memory. Simon Snow will live forever in my mind as the best birthday gift I ever received, even if I only got to keep him for a night.

When he lowers himself to put his weight on his elbows instead of his hands, I can’t help the little noise that escapes the back of my throat. There’s only about an inch of space between us now and I feel like I’m going mad. I can’t comprehend this level of pleasure.

Then he erases that single inch, and with it, the rest of my sanity. His shirt is the only thing separating his skin from mine, but the warmth of him still makes me shiver. He’s heavy. His tongue brushes the inside of my mouth. He’s not holding anything back.

I already knew he was brave. Even when I was trying to convince myself that I hated him, I knew he was a special kind of person, the kind who would dive into danger without hesitation if it meant it would help someone else. But kissing a vampire who also happens to be your enemy is a kind of courageousness that borders on unfathomable for someone like me, someone who hides behind endless layers of sarcasm and repression and denial.

He shifts a little on top of me and I feel like I might crack in half. I’ve had dreams about this, both waking and otherwise. I’ve imagined a thousand times what it might be like to kiss him, but there are so many little details I never knew to include in my fantasies. It’s three dimensional and messy and real. It’s intimacy dialed up to a level that was literally unimaginable to me until this exact moment.

Following my baser instinct for greed, my hand, which has been placed lightly enough on his hip that he may not have even felt it, happens to find its way under Snow’s shirt. I touch his side just with the tips of my fingers and he instantly flinches away.

“Sorry,” I mutter, trying to pull away, already starting to panic about spooking him.

He pins me down. “Baz. Your hand is cold. That’s all.”

I lie there with my arms pressed into the mattress, paralyzed by the curse of self awareness. We’re looking at each other now and the tension is so thick I can taste it. To return to what we were up to a moment ago feels physically impossible.

“Do you want to stop?” he asks.

“Do you?”

He sits up and pulls his shirt off, tossing it onto the floor between our beds.

“What is happening?” I murmur.

“Haven’t a fucking clue.” He leans back down and the warmth of his skin on mine makes me shudder. “I’m trying not to think.”

“What does that mean?”

He shrugs. “It’s just what I do. Makes things easier.”

“Is this feeling hard for you?”

“I’ve never snogged a bloke before,” he says, and his face is only inches from mine. “I might find that a bit weird if I think about it.”

I have to close my eyes. His freckles and moles up close are too much. “And how are you finding it?” I whisper.

“I’m still on top of you, aren’t I?”

My stomach swoops, and I can’t hold back from touching him any longer. I run the tips of my fingers up his side and he doesn’t flinch this time, but sighs in a way that sounds contented.

“That feels nice.” He presses his forehead to my cheek. “You feel nice.”

I can’t speak. It’s simply too much.

“I’m gonna kiss you again,” he says. “Okay?”

All I can do is nod.

**Simon**

The sun has started to rise by the time we’ve run out of energy. I don’t know exactly how long I laid on top of him, but I know it was long enough for my lips to go numb, and even that couldn’t stop me. I think I’m already addicted to the way Baz kisses. And the way he runs his cool hands over my back leaving goosebumps in their wake. And the way he seemed as reluctant as I was to admit defeat.

We’re still lying in his bed, but now I'm beside him. Half on top of him really, his arm under my neck while my head rests on his shoulder. I’m so tired that this feels like a dream.

“Do you know any spells that can freeze time for a little while?” My voice sounds about as rough and dodgy as it should be for the kind of night I had

His voice, of course, is cool and dreamy, just like the rest of him. “If I did I would’ve cast it already.”

I’m running a finger along his chest, following the slight curve of the muscle there. He’s firmer than me, like he’s cut from marble. And it turns out he does have hair on his nipples. Not a lot, but a little.

“So you liked it.”

He doesn’t call me stupid, which might be the biggest surprise of the night. He bends his arm so it hooks around the side of my neck and he can push my hair off my forehead. “Yes.”

“Have you thought about this before?” I ask, closing my eyes as he strokes over one of my eyebrows with his thumb. “About me?”

He takes a little longer to respond this time, but the answer is still, “Yes.”

I don’t know what to make of that. I’m too tired.

“We need to get up,” he says.

I’m already at least a quarter way to asleep, but I still find it in me to groan.

Then he hits me with the big guns: “We’ll miss breakfast.”

“I think I don’t care,” I say, turning my face to nuzzle into his armpit. “Wanna stay here.”

“You’d choose faffing about with me over food? Really?” He pulls his arm out from under me and sits up abruptly. “What is this?”

I sit up too, digging the heel of my palms into my eyes to try to force myself awake. “What?”

“Is this… are you trying to…” He trails off, apparently not having formulated a solid theory yet about what to accuse me of. It’s very unlike him, and normally I’d be fucking ecstatic to watch him struggle for words, but right now it’s making my stomach feel rotten.

He looks at me with fierceness in his stormy eyes. “Why did you do this? Why did you kiss me?”

I shrug, and his expression goes steely. I hate it. I can’t let it stand.

“Because I wanted to.”

**Baz**

I want to believe that. I’m desperate for it to be true, but there’s something lodged in the pit of my stomach that doesn’t want to let go of the idea that this is some kind of plot.

“Right,” I say, getting up off the bed and hating myself for it. “I’m going to breakfast.”

“Can I come with you?”

“Best not to keep Bunce waiting.” I collect my uniform and drape it over my arm as I head for the bathroom. “She may have questions about why you’re late.” I don’t want to turn around to see what kind of expression my words have caused on his tired face, so I don’t. It’s cowardly, but I’m starting to think that might be one of my core personality traits.

Unfortunately, because it’s Snow, he doesn’t let me off that easy.

“You’re being an absolute tit right now. You’re going to feel bad about it later.”

I still don’t want to turn around, lest the sight of him shirtless in my bed causes me to immediately take leave of my senses and dive back into something that has the potential to shatter what little is left of my humanity, but he gives me no choice. He knows by now exactly how to goad me into confrontation.

It’s worse than I thought. He’s backlit by the morning sun, his hair a halo of golden curls, the light kissing the contours of his freckled shoulders. It’s horrendous. I could write poetry about how beautiful he is, and yet somehow I have to try to keep my resolve.

“What makes you think you know anything about how I feel?” I ask, impressed by the coldness in my voice.

He’s not intimidated by it at all. “You’re not as much of an enigma as you think are.”

“Oh, big word. Impressive.”

He stands up and walks over to his side of the room, scooping up the uniform he’d left crumpled on the floor. “You’re such a cliché, Baz.” He pulls his arms through the shirt and starts buttoning from the bottom up. I’m trying very hard not to look at his bare chest. “You fancy me and maybe you have for a long time. And now that I’ve figured it out, you’re pissing yourself at the thought of being vulnerable.”

I’m stood rooted to the spot knowing I should say something clever or cruel or at least argue a little with his assertion, but all I can do is silently watch him get dressed. He finishes buttoning his shirt and then pulls a Watford jumper overtop. When he hooks his thumbs into the band of his pj bottoms and starts to tug them down, I only just manage to look away in time to avoid seeing any more of his infernal naked skin. I couldn’t survive that, there’s just no way.

“So,” he says, once he’s pulled on his trousers and zipped the flies. “Are you coming with me to breakfast or not?”

“Not.”

“Brill. I guess we’ll talk about this later, then. When you’ve realized that you’re the idiot, for once.”

He leaves. I watch him go, then stare at myself in the bathroom mirror while the water for my shower heats up. I look a fucking mess, but it’s nothing compared to how I feel.

-

I don’t go to breakfast at all. Instead I stand under burning hot water until ten minutes before lessons start. Snow sits behind me in magic words, and I can feel his eyes on me the whole time. It’s almost enough to distract from a perfect score on my quiz. I shudder to imagine what his result will be.

We really did spend the whole second half of the night kissing. That definitely happened, regardless of what it actually means for the future of our interactions with each other. My jaw hurts a little. And I’m exhausted. And every time I close my eyes I see him on top of me. I know the taste of his mouth and the feel of his tongue.

I skip lunch in favour of hunting in the Wood. It’s unconscionably risky, but I’m beginning to feel properly unhinged, and there’s no way I can sit in the dining hall and act normal when he’s there too. He’d probably stare at me across the room over a plate heaped twice as high as it should be. I wonder if he’ll tell Bunce. Or if he has already. I wonder if this was a plan they hatched from the beginning, lowering my defenses by using my greatest weakness against me. I wonder how long they’ve known, how long they’ve been mocking me behind my back.

Snow shows up at my football practice, (in the gymnasium given the time of year) which isn’t at all unusual, but today it feels different. I’ve spent all day casting him as a conniving villain in my head, but the reality is that I don’t believe it. One look at him and all my venom disintegrates.

Simon Snow is not a plotter. He doesn’t lie and he doesn’t manipulate. He’s thick as a plank sometimes and a perpetual pain in my ass, but he’s never once proved himself capable of true deception. He’s not like me; even his insults are painfully sincere.

He watches me score goal after goal in shooting drills, and eventually his attention makes me brazen. Usually I try not to let loose the extent of my physical advantage over my teammates, but he’s watching and I want to impress him. I want to win back some of the dignity he stripped from me this morning with his remarkable insight into my psyche.

He knows I want him. And it’s fucking terrifying.

-

He’s not waiting for me when I finally steel myself enough to emerge from the changeroom, but I suppose that should be expected. It’s nearly dinner, after all. My stomach is empty and I should probably eat some actual food, but the call of my vampiric needs is stronger. I can’t be thirsty tonight. I can’t be longing for his blood along with all the rest of him. I need my head to be clear.

**Simon**

He takes bloody forever to come back to the room. I’m nearly ready to go out and look for him when I hear him uttering the spell to let himself in. I’m sat on his bed with my legs crossed, a plate of toast in front of me.

He closes the door and leans back against it. “You couldn’t do that in your own bed? The crumbs, Snow.”

He sounds softer than he had this morning, which makes my heart flutter hopefully. “It’s for you.”

He cocks an eyebrow and waits for me to explain. He had his hair up in a bun earlier, at football, but it’s down again. He smells like cedar so I assume he showered after practice, but I guess it’s possible vampire sweat just smells like that.

He looks good. I really don’t understand why I never noticed just how fit he is. I don’t understand what it says about me that I find another bloke fit, and not in just an objective observational way. He’s not just attractive, I’m attracted to him, which is just… well, gay. I think. I don’t know. I’ve been trying not to think about it, but I guess I’ve done a lot more than look at him now, so the question of whether or not I’m a little bit gay is moot. I reckon not a lot of straight guys spend hours attached at the mouth and thoroughly enjoy the experience.

“Snow,” he says, pulling me back into the moment. “You can eat the toast. I don’t want it.”

“Because you had dinner in the catacombs?”

He doesn’t answer, and I don’t blame him. I’m not trying to be a dick, sometimes it’s just natural with Baz. I do it without even thinking.

“Just come here,” I say. “I want to show you something.”

“Crowley,” he mutters, dropping his kit and actually listening to me for once. He climbs up onto the mattress and sits across the plate from me, mirroring the position of my legs and leaning forward to rest his elbows on the inside of his knees in a show of exaggerated attention to whatever I have to say.

I pull my wand out of my pocket and he immediately recoils.

“For fuck’s sake,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Just watch. I’ve been practicing.”

He doesn’t argue, but I can see that his jaw is clenched. I shouldn’t take it personally that he doesn’t trust me. I’ve only gone and rewritten the entire Pitch v. Snow playbook in a single day.

I point my wand at the toast but keep my eyes on Baz. I have to feel this if it’s going to work. _ **“Let them eat cake.”**_

It works. Sort of. It’s just one slice instead of a full cake, and it’s a bit wonky, the top layer slid slightly to the side on a thick bed of chocolate icing, but it’s still recognizably the baked good that most people eat on birthdays.

I pluck a single candle from my pocket and plop it in. I meant for it to have eighteen, but there isn’t enough room.

He’s staring at the plate, his expression blank.

“Penny taught me,” I tell him. “I figured your dad probably didn’t get you a cake yesterday.” I nudge his knee with mine. “Go on and light it. You’re good with fire.”

He looks up at me. “You asked Bunce to teach you a spell? For me?” He gestures to the plate. “For this?”

I shrug.

“It’s pathetic, Snow.”

He’s trying so hard to bait me, but he’s not going to succeed this time. “Light the fucking candle or I’ll sing.”

He pulls up a small flame from his palm and plays it between his fingers before setting the tiny wick alight.

I say, “Make a wish.”

He stares at me for a long time before blowing the candle out.

Then he pushes the plate onto the floor.

**Baz**

This time I’m on top. His legs are open and I’m in between them, pushing him down into my mattress.

“If you’re fucking with me—” I start.

“I’m not.”

He looks so infuriatingly smug. I want to kiss the smirk right off his face. “What do you want, Snow?”

Even pinned underneath me, he manages a shrug. “I just want to talk without you freaking out and running away. I’m not trying to jump straight to bloody happy boyfriends.”

That stuns me out of whatever clever thing I would have said next. “I— was… was that on the table?”

Now he full on grins. “You do fancy me.”

“You are the most infuriating person I’ve ever—”

He grabs the collar of my shirt and pulls me down, mashing his mouth against mine. It’s awful. It hurts. His breath smells of chicken.

“Say it,” he murmurs, not letting me pull away even a few centimetres.

“You say it first.”

“I fancy you.”

He says it like it requires absolutely no introspection on his part.

“Since when?” I ask.

“Well. I don’t know. Since last night, I guess. Or maybe since I met you.” He lets go of my collar and tucks a bit of hair behind my ear. “I’ve always been obsessed with you. Now I know why.”

“I don’t understand,” I say. I don’t mean it literally, and I think he knows that. I pull away from him to sit up, and he follows.

“Me neither,” he says. “But last night was fun and I don’t want to overthink it. I like you when you’re not being such a massive wankstain.”

“What about the Mage?” I ask.

“Fuck the Mage.”

“What about Wellbelove?”

He frowns. “Agatha? I told you we broke up. And we don’t like each other.”

“What about my father?”

He shrugs. “That part’s up to you. But it sounds like he doesn’t really listen to you, so you might not want to let him be the arbiter of your happiness.”

“You really don’t care?”

“No. I don’t. I want to help you find your mother’s killer and I want you to help me defeat the Humdrum someday. And I’d like to be allowed to kiss you.” He shuffles a little closer and puts his hand on my leg. “I like this more than fighting.”

“What if I want more?” I ask.

“More?”

My heart is beating a little faster, but I’m not scared anymore. “What if I want bloody happy boyfriends?”

“Do you?”

“Yes, Snow. Crowley help me, I do.”

“I have a bad track record as a boyfriend, just so you know. I was pretty terrible at it.”

“It couldn’t possibly be worse than your track record as a roommate,” I say. “Even if you’re the most terrible boyfriend in the world, I’ll still be trading up.”

“Well in that case…” He leans into my space and waits for me to meet him the rest of the way. I do, and we share a kiss that shatters me more than anything that happened last night. It’s small and sweet and in its innocence lies the promise of so much more than fighting.

“Happy birthday, Baz.”


End file.
